Sarah is my college roommate. Twenty-three years of friendship. She's 47, two kids in high school, married 21 years.
That Thursday, a week after my bathroom moment, something was different about her.
She looked rested. Like something inside her had unwound.
Halfway through lunch her phone lit up. She smiled, a small, private smile, and typed something back.
"Ben?" I asked.
She nodded.
"Sarah. What is going on with you?"
She laughed. Looked down at her plate. Then back at me.
"I'm sleeping with my husband again," she said.
I blinked. "...You weren't?"
"Claire. Tell me you and Mark are still..."
I didn't say anything. I looked down at my napkin. And before I could stop it, the tears were just there. Right there at lunch on a Thursday afternoon.
Sarah grabbed my hand. Waited until I could breathe.
Then she said the thing that changed everything:
"Claire, I started using this thing about six months ago. It's not what you think. It's a wellness device. Red light therapy."
"For your face?"
"Not for my face."
It took me a second.
"Wait. What?"
"It's not a vibrator. It's not Botox for down there. It's not anything you've already tried. It's called SculptHer."
She wrote it on her receipt. Slid it across the table.
"Promise me you'll look it up tonight. I would not be telling you this if it hadn't done what it did."
She squeezed my hand.
"You don't have to lose this part of your marriage. I'm telling you. You don't."